


Rub You the Right Way

by jagnikjen



Series: The Chronicles of Blake Moran [5]
Category: Madam Secretary
Genre: Blake has a hot hockey boyfriend, Blow Jobs, Explicit Sexual Content, Hockey, M/M, Washington Capitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-10-20 23:47:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10673268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jagnikjen/pseuds/jagnikjen
Summary: Celebratory blow jobs are a thing.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Details of the game depicted in this fic are gleefully stolen from the Washington Capitals/Calgary Flames match-up on 10-03-2013. The Caps won the game after overtime and a shootout.
> 
> The score, penalties, OT, and shootout status of this game are accurate in that they really happened in the above referenced game. However, instead of Alexander Ovechkin making those three goals, I’ve attributed them to Oliver for the purpose of this fic. I’ve got nothing against Mr. Ovechkin. I’m sure he’s a lovely man, and he's one of the best players in the league at the moment. Also, in case you don’t know, he’s actually the team captain. :0)
> 
> All the explicit stuff happens in the second chapter, so you can safely read chapter one if that's not your thing and not miss much.

Blake wandered through the throngs of fans already streaming into the Verizon Center holding the ball cap he’d been given at the door. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with it—he didn’t wear them, but he was sure someone he knew would want it.

Oliver had left him a ticket at will call and he could tell it was a good one. How good, he wasn’t sure yet. Blake had been to the arena a couple of times for concerts, but had ignored the fan shop. Or been oblivious to it. Now he wanted some merch. Something with his boyfriend’s name or number on it.

It was a thing he knew about from seeing sports on television, but now, he’s surrounded by people wearing jerseys with Ovechkin, Holtby, Backstrom and Linna emblazoned across the back. Wearing ball caps, scarfs, red and blue beanie hats with the team name/logo on it. Carrying big red foam fingers, tote bags, and fleece blankets. Now he wants something of his own…

The fan shop is huge, but it’s got to be, apparently, since…Blake counts…four sports teams are being represented. Wizard and Capitals stuff far and away taking up the most space. Blake is fine with that.

His mouth drops open as he ambles through the store. Lego figures and rubber ducks, socks, key chains, mugs—anything he could imagine and some he never would have thought of; he feels like a kid in the proverbial candy store.

He finds a dark blue Caps hoodie—it’s a bit chillier in the arena than he anticipated—chooses a soft heather gray tee shirt with Oliver’s name number on the back, and grabs an Oliver Linna faux Lego figurine and heads to the checkout.

Ducking into a bathroom, Blake layers on his new clothing and tucks the figure box into the pocket of his leather jacket.

The next stop is concessions. He hits a burgers and beer stand and fights to control his giggles when it’s Oliver on the souvenir soda cup. He buys an empty one.

Now…time to find his seat. After finding the right section, he shows his ticket to the arena worker.

“All the way down to the glass, sir, and to the right.”

Blake’s head feels like a helium balloon. “Are you serious?” he asks. What the hell? Oliver had gotten him a seat on the glass. _Well, of course he did._ He’s a player. He’s got pull like that.

The older man smiles. “Yes, sir. That’s one of the best seats in the house. Enjoy the game.”

Blake walks down the sloping steps, getting closer and closer to the ice. He feels the chill but he doesn’t—his blood’s pumping and, oh, fucking hell. Blake’s gonna be able to pick Oliver out easily.

Nothing’s going on out on the ice at the moment, but Blake arrived super early so as not to miss anything. He settles into his seat and eats his food. People fill in the seats around the rink and then all off a sudden, a swarm of hockey players come flooding onto the ice. The Capitals in red and the Flames in white. 

Blake stands and watches as they swoosh and glide around the rink.

The red jerseys fill the side of the ice Blake’s on, skating around chatting, laughing, stretching. Someone dumps a bucket of pucks and the team organizes itself and the players take turns passing to one another and shooting at the net.

A line of players skates by and the last one stops.

 _Oliver._ He’s not wearing a helmet at the moment. His hair is dark with sweat already, but his blue eyes sparkle.

Blake can’t help the smile. “Hi.”

“Hi, yourself. Enjoy the game.” 

Blake’s surprised he can hear him through the glass. He nods.

Oliver skates off and gets back in whatever sort of formation they’ve got going on. Every puck he hits goes into the net.

~*~*~

During the first break in the game—intermission, he thinks he heard them call it—he scurries to the bathroom and back with no idea what to expect from the upcoming game play. The Caps are losing 3 to 0, and from the sports news he’s followed since meeting and dating Oliver, hockey games are generally low scoring, averaging two to three goals per game. That doesn’t bode well for the Capitals chances of rebounding and pulling out a win.

A few minutes after he gets sits down, the teams come back to the ice and skate around for a moment.

Blake searches for Oliver and finds him on the bench. Their gazes meet and Oliver lifts a gloved hand. Blake waves back. The whistle blows and the scuffle at center ice draws both their attention.

“Oh, my God, did Oliver Linna just wave at you?” asks the teenaged boy next to him. He hadn’t been seated when Oliver’d spoken to Blake prior to the game.

“He did,” says Blake, unable to help the smile or the thrill that flutters through him.

“You _know_ Oliver Linna?” the boy asks, voice cracking on ‘know.’ His brown eyes are wide and amazed.

“Oliver and I are friends.” Blake understands how rarified his air is in this regard. He wishes he could say “he’s my boyfriend.” The kid probably wouldn’t care, but if he told people, and he would, because who doesn’t blab when you meet someone close to a famous athlete, other people would definitely care.

“That’s wicked cool,” the boy says.

“It is, isn’t it?” Blake’s heart thumps just a little harder as he turns back to the action. Most of the play is at the other end at the moment, but a player comes rushing this direction and then the whistle blows. They re-gather around the broken circle and Oliver’s right there, the back of his jersey and padded ass on full view. Gloved hands are braced on his knees, stick resting across the expanse between them. Blake’s never thumbed opened the camera on his phone so fast, but he gets a picture before the ref drops the puck and the players scramble after it.

Play moves from one end to the other and back at a hectic pace. Blake has no idea how they do it. Okay, well, logically he knows practice and conditioning, but still.

A moment later, a cheer goes up and a loud horns sounds throughout the arena. Blake adds a whistle to the chaos. His team is on the scoreboard.

A few minutes later, the Flames score again and a pained collective “aww” echoes around the arena. The score’s now 4 to 1. Play resumes again until it stops. One ref escorts a player to the glass box next to Blake. The crowd goes crazy and Blake has no idea what the fuss is. Another ref skates to the center of the ice and announces that David Jones gets two minutes for high sticking. “Power Play” flashes from the jumbotron and Blake’s at a loss. It’s the sixth one of the game.

“Hey, kid—” Blake leans over to the teen. “I’m really new to hockey, like _really_ new. What’s high sticking and what’s a power play?”

The teen laughs. “Dude, seriously?” he asks but his eyes never leave the ice.

Blake shrugs and smiles sheepishly. “Yeah.”

 _“Look—”_ The kid points fervently to the ice.

Blake looks up just in time to see Oliver pull back his stick and swing forward. There’s a clack as he makes contact with the puck—which goes flying. The goalie dives, but the goal horn sounds and the arena erupts again. Oliver’s immediately surrounded by his teammates and smacked on the helmet.

Blake’s heart is thumping a mile a minute— _Oliver scored a goal._

The boy turns to Blake. “That, dude, was a power play goal. And your boy Linna gets a point for that.”

“Oh. That’s awesome.” He doesn’t know anything about points other than goals, but it sounds as if it’s a good thing.

The fan go nuts for a few more moments and then play resumes once again.

He still has questions, but the on-ice action is fast and furious and he can ask Oliver later.

Oliver and another player leave the ice and other players hop over the wall. Blake keeps an eye on both the puck and Oliver, who’s most definitely concentrating on his teammates. He scoots down the bench as another set of players cycles off and on the ice. And then he’s catapulting over the wall and tearing down the ice once more.

He steals the puck from a Flames player and steams toward the goal. He bats the puck back and forth with his own stick a couple of times and then swats the goal. It slides beneath the goalie’s legs. The horn goal sounds again. Oliver’s swooping down on one knee and throwing a fist in the air as he come upright again.

A couple of players swarm him again and they look pretty excited.

“Your boy’s 2/3 of the way to a hatty, dude,” says the kid.

“Um…what’s a hatty?”

The kid laughs. Puts a couple fingers in his mouth and whistles. “A hat trick is when one player scores three goals in one game. When that happens, fans throw hats onto the ice. If anyone can pull it off, it’s Linna. He’s looked good all pre-season, so, yeah. Good thing they handed out hats at the door, huh?”

Blake looks at the hat on the floor at his feet and grins “I guess so.”

The period finally ends and Blake drops to his seat. The score’s 4 to 3 now. If the Caps could score three goals in the second period, surely they could pull out a win. Blake has no idea.

“Hey, kid, what’s your name?”

“Brian Ford.”

“Hi, Brian. Blake Moran, nice to meet you.” Blake pulls a couple of twenties from his wallet. “If I refill your soda there, pay for something else to eat if you want, will you give me a twenty-minute hockey primer?”

The kid’s eyes light up as he studies the $40 in Blake’s hand. He looks at the man sitting next to him and then back at Blake. “Dude, I mean, Blake, that’s cool, but not necessary.”

Blake hands him the money. “Good answer. I’ll take a souvenir cup with Sprite. Get whatever you want. Keep the change. Hurry.”

Brian holds out for another moment before taking the cash and rushing up the steps.

Blake looks over at the man sitting on Brian’s other side. “You got a good kid there, Mr. Ford.”

The man smiles. “Thanks. Just so you know, he saved up his allowances and money from his odd jobs for six months to buy these seats for my birthday.”

“Well, happy birthday.” Blake is suitably awed. He has no idea how much they cost, but he can imagine that seats on the glass don’t come cheap. And the kid bought two of them. Blake pulls a business card from his wallet and hands it to Brian’s dad. “Send me an email or something next month. Oliver’s a friend of mine. Maybe I could get a pair of tickets for you and your son for Christmas or something.”

“Wow, Mr. Moran, that’s a generous offer,” Mr. Ford looks as awed as Blake had felt a moment ago, “but as Brian said, it’s really not necessary.”

Blake scans the stairs and sees Brian juggling three cups and some food. “Look, Mr. Ford—” Blake hands him the card. “I don’t know your situation. From one sentence, I have an idea, although I could be way off. Let me do something within my power for a couple of guys who maybe don’t have enough special in their lives.”

Mr. Ford tucks the business card into his coat pocket and swipes a wrist across his nose. “Thank you.”

“Make sure you don’t forget,” says Blake, and Brian slides sideways down the row.

“Here, Dad, I got you a Dr. Pepper and a hot dog. I know how much you like stadium dogs.”

“Thank you, son.” Mr. Ford looks at Blake, eyes shiny, and nods. Blake cants his head in return.

“Sprite for you.” Brian hands Blake his cup. “Mountain Dew for me. Thanks a lot, Blake.” He plops into the seat between Blake and his dad. He glances up at the jumbotron where it’s counting down the eight minutes of intermission left. “Okay, so…”

Brian covers the high-sticking, the cross-checking, and the interfere penalties, as well as the fighting and the sin bin. He just finishes explaining icing and off sides when the players zoom back onto the ice and play resumes.

Play slows down a little this period and Brian explains the new penalties as they happen, keeping his eyes on the ice, and sparing Blake a glance only once in a while. Which is fine, because Blake has his own face glued to the glass, watching the shift changes and keeping his eyes on Oliver when he’s on the ice.

“Look, Blake, watch,” Brian says and points.

The puck’s skittering across the ice and Oliver hits it toward a teammate who bats it toward another guy. Blake’s not sure who that it is, but the goal horn blares and Brian cheers. The crowd is going wild all around them.

“Your boy just earned his third point of the night for the assist. That’s, like, awesome. And he helped us get the tying goal. If they can score again,” he eyes the clock, “they win. But really all they have to do is keep possession and it’ll go to overtime, so even if they lose, they still get a point.”

“I thought they had four points.” Blake points at the jumbotron.

“Those are goals. As far as standings go, a team gets two points for winning, whether in regulation or overtime. Losing team gets no points in regulation and one point in overtime.”

He nods, but he only just grasps the concept, and they both focus back on the action. The next six minutes seem like the longest six minutes of Blake’s life as the puck bounces back and forth between the Capitals and the Flames. The line changes seem to happen more often too.

“Fresh legs,” Brian explains.

Finally, the horn sounds, and the fans are on their feet, cheering.

“They get no break. Straight into overtime. Five minutes of play, first team to get a goal wins.”

If Blake thought the last six minutes was long, the next five are excruciating. The puck changes hands and teams so many times, Blake loses count. The horn blares again, and the teams remain tied at 4.

“Now what?” asks Blake, falling into his seat, pulse thrumming his veins. He’s exhausted. He can’t imagine how the players feel.

“Shootout,” says Brian. “Each team picks three players who’ll alternate taking shots on the opposing goalie. Most goals at the end of three rounds wins. If they don’t score or it’s tied, they keep going.”

“Well, shoot. Let’s hope they score, eh?”

The first to shoot is a Cap—and he makes it and the crowd goes crazy.

The Flame that follows is unable to level the score.

Next up is Oliver. He starts on the far side of the center red line, swatting the puck back and forth as he closes the distance between himself and the goal. In another moment, the klaxon blares and the crowd goes wild. Hats start to fly.

Oliver fist pumps the air on his way back to the bench.

Blake prepares to toss his hat, but Brian stops him.

“You can if you want, but shootout goals don’t count for anything but determining the winner of the game.”

“Well, that sucks.”

Brian shrugs. “Them’s the rules, unfortunately.”

The next Flames player misses his goal and that’s it. The Caps win the game.

“I thought you said three tries?”

“Even if we went to the third round, the Flames can’t win, so there’s no point.”

The teams file off the ice, but the announcer speaks, so Blake listens. Several Capital players, including Oliver huddle right inside the center that Blake assumes leads to their locker room. The announcer comments about the size of the crowd and the winner of some sort of raffle.

_“And now, tonight’s three stars of the game!”_

Brian elbows Blake and grins.

_“For his three goals and one assist—Ol-i-verrrr Linnaaaaa!”_

The crowd goes wild as Oliver skates back onto the ice with his stick held high in the air. He does a few large figure eights and then skates toward Blake.

“Oh my God,” says Brian.

“What?” asks Blake, his heart in his throat, watching Oliver come toward him.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” Brian says again.

Oliver slides to a stop and points at Blake, a huge smile on his face, before gently tossing his stick over the glass. Blake catches it with a clatter against the glass as the crowd cheers some more and Oliver skates off.

“What the hell?” Blake asks. “Why did he give me his stick?”

“Because that’s what they do. The three stars of the night toss their stick into the crowd. Goodwill gesture, I guess. See.” Brian points as another Caps player is just now pitching his stick into the crowd.

“Oh my God,” says Blake, completely flabbergasted. He can’t believe it. He just…

Brian’s grinning, running his hand along the logo. “That’s so freakin’ cool.”

“Here.” Blake thrusts it into Brian’s hand. Because, really? What’s he going to do with a hockey stick? And—he’s got Oliver.

Brian’s eyes get really big. “What, Blake, no. I mean—he gave it to you.” He holds it out to Blake.

“Brian, look. Oliver is my friend. I can get another stick if I wanted, and you…” Blake glances past Brian to his dad, who’s got shiny eyes and a red nose again. “You seem like a really good kid. Your dad told me you paid for these tickets and I really want you to have it.”

Brian looks at his dad, who offers him a tremulous smile and nods. Turning back to Blake, his face is now suitably awed. “Th-thanks, Blake. Wow. I don’t know what to say. This is so freaking awesome. I just—” He drops the stick and throws his arms around Blake. “Thanks.” His words are muffle in Blake’s chest.

They break apart and it’s only mildly awkward, but Blake is nothing if not a professional and a dweeb so he shakes it off. Pulling out his cell, he jiggles it and asks, “Do you have phone?”

He shakes his head, looking partly embarrassed and partly irked. “No. Dad said not till high school. That’s next year.”

“Right. Well, Mr. Ford, can we exchange numbers? I’d love to talk hockey with Brian every now and again.”

Mr. Ford gives him a smirk as if knowing his game, but nods nonetheless and retrieves his own phone from the inside pocket of his coat. They exchange numbers and walk out together.

Brian chatters excited about the game and he keeps looking disbelievingly at the hockey stick in his hand.

Out on the concourse, they say their goodbyes. Blake and Mr. Ford share another handshake and Brian gives Blake another enthusiastic hug.

“Can you tell Oli—Mr. Linna thanks?”

Blake nods. “Next time I see him.”

Mr. Ford slings his arm around Brian and they walk off, laughing and chatting. Blake’s heart is full at meeting them. His own dad died a few years ago, and he misses him every day.

Blake turns to head to the exit leading to the metro station. He gets a text from Oliver when he’s halfway down the block.

_Celebrating at Orpik’s place. You want to come?_

Blake snorts at the question. He really does want to see Oliver in person without Plexiglas between them, but he’s not up to keeping himself in check in front of Oliver’s teammates tonight. They’ve been accepting about the two of them, but Blake doesn’t want to test the limits of their sensibilities. Most of the straight men he’s encountered in his life, no matter how “progressive” they claim to be still shudder when they see two of their own even being chastely intimate. If Blake had a dime for every sneer he’s received just because he was holding hands with a man, he’d have another IRA in his portfolio.

 _I’d love to come, but I don’t think Orpik’s is the right place for that. :)_ he types and hits send before he can change his mind.

_You are a bad boy, my Blake. Fine. Give me till midnight. Meet me at my place._

Blake sends him back a smiley face. _Hurry._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebration blow jobs are a thing. Who blows who?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it finally is. Apologies for the delay.
> 
> On a side note, I finally got around to watching Revelation and wow. Love love loved it and Blake. His revelations don't break much in my AU. Obviously I have him revealing his sexuality "years" ago to MamSec and his co-workers, so that already made it AU. The other thing that breaks my head canon, but not anything I include in this series is that from his comments, Blake is older than I thought he was by three or four years. Not that it really matters.

It’s a little after ten now and it’s going to take Blake thirty minutes to get back to his car at his own local metro station and another fifteen to get to Oliver’s place.

He arrives at Oliver’s house, heads straight upstairs, and snuggles into Oliver’s king-sized bed with the news casting a flickering blue glow across the bed and the volume turned low. The door slams downstairs not too much later, followed by thudding up the wooden staircase.

Blake glances at the TV box for the time, surprised to see it’s only a quarter after eleven.

Oliver fills the doorway bringing in cool air and the scent of his cologne with him.

“Hey,” says Blake, sitting up. The gladness that always accompanies Oliver’s appearance blooms inside of him. “You said midnight, babe. You deserved to celebrate with the team. Congrats, by the way.”

Oliver smiles and is cupping Blake’s chin, tipping his face upwards, and kissing him a moment later. “I know, but we’re leaving tomorrow for Dallas and I wanted to see you. In case you hadn’t noticed, my life is not my own once again, so we have to grab every moment we can.”

Blake’s heart swells. Even after five months, Oliver still seems as taken with him as ever and, that’s…well, that’s amazing. Blake’s last serious relationship had been years prior to Oliver, and it was never like this. Sweet and hot and comfortable. And always top priority to the both of them insofar as it can be considering the demands of each of their jobs.

“Okay,” Blake whispers, instigating another kiss. Oliver kisses with intent, with a thoroughness Blake loves. He tastes slightly like beer, but Blake couldn’t care less.

Oliver pulls away slowly, not letting go of Blake until he’s forced to, and then he’s tugging off his layered shirts and toeing out of his shoes; shoving his jeans and briefs to the floor and stepping out of them. He rips off his socks and then stands there butt naked, looking like an Adonis, with his hands on his hips. His erection juts straight out from the sprout of light brown hair. An eyebrow arches and Oliver smirks. “One of us has too many clothes on.”

Blake tosses his shirt across the room and shucks his briefs and drops them over the edge of the bed.

Oliver crawls onto the bed, forcing Blake to his back. He nips along Blake’s jaw, down his neck, licks and gently sucks at his pulse. He won’t leave a hickey there, because he understands Blake’s job and that a love bite above his collar would be most definitely frowned upon. Blake still marvels at how lucky he is, not all his dates have been quite so considerate.

The rub of Oliver’s facial hair down Blake’s chest and across his nipples elicits a full body shiver and sends hot want to the very core of him. Oliver nibbles and kisses his way down Blake’s chest and abdomen. Blake’s panting with eagerness, legs spayed open, dick hard and leaking.

“Wait, wait,” he gasps, pushing up onto his elbows and looking down his body at his boyfriend.

Oliver peers up at him, mouth open, eyes more pupil than iris. “What?”

“You’re the one who got the hat trick…shouldn’t I be blowing you?”

Oliver laughs. “You can return the favor later, all right?” He dips down and takes the head of Blake’s erection in his mouth, presses his tongue against the slit. Blake bucks into the heat and the pressure, groaning in pleasure. Oliver’s hand splays across Blake’s belly, and Blake covers Oliver’s hand with his own. Their fingers twine and Blake’s never felt more lov— No he can’t go there. It’s only been five months and it’s too soon for that. He feels cherished and cared for. Yeah, that’s it. Suction brings him back to the here and now and the fact that he’d getting his dick sucked.

Blake murmurs and moans under the onslaught of Oliver’s mouth. Electricity sparks deep inside Blake and shoots up his spine. He squeezes his fingers around Oliver’s and gasps out, “Gonna come…”

Oliver hums his acknowledgment and the vibration sends electricity pulsing through him and pushes Blake over the edge. With a loud groan, he comes in Oliver’s mouth. Oliver swallows and pulls off. A moment later, he’s collapsed next to Blake, nestling his head on Blake’s chest, dragging textured fingers across Blake’s chest.

“I love playing hockey, but this is the first year I’ve ever had mixed feelings about the season,” says Oliver. His finger traces swirls over his Blake’s chest. “That’s because of you, kultsi.” He presses a kiss to Blake’s rib cage.

“I’m sorry?” Blake says, although it sounds like a question. He’s not sure how to take Oliver’s comment. Part of him is ecstatic that Oliver doesn’t want to be away from him, be he also doesn’t want to be the cause of Oliver not playing well. He rolls his eyes behind his eyelids. Oliver’s a great player and a professional and loves hockey. He’d never let his personal feelings affect his game. For Blake to think Oliver’s level of play would somehow be affected despite his feelings for Blake, is nothing but arrogance on Blake’s part.

“No apologies. It’s nice to know I have someone now. I used to envy the guys with wives and girlfriends sometimes. That win or lose, someone’s going to be happy to see me after a game or upon our return from a roadie. And I hope you’ll…”

Blake waits for the rest, but Oliver stays quiet. Blake scrapes his fingernails lightly up Oliver’s back. “You hope I’ll what?”

Oliver huffs. “I hope the separations and all the routines and obligations that go with my job won’t eventually come between us.”

Blake drags his nails over Oliver’s scalp and brushes his fingers over Oliver’s shoulder. “Part of me feels like I should be insulted by that statement, but the logical part of me realizes that it doesn’t have anything to do with your faith in me.”

“No, of course not. I’ve been playing professional hockey for the better part of a decade and I’ve seen many of my teammates lose girlfriends because these women just don’t get the pressure and the responsibilities we have—as part of our contracts—to the organization and any sponsors we have, as well as to the fans. They think being a professional athlete is all fun and games and parties, but it’s not. We willingly do all this other stuff for the love of the game—to be able to play this sport that we all love at a professional level.”

“Okay.” Blake doesn’t even know what to say. He’s never loved something that much, so he understands on an intellectual level, but not on an experience level or an emotional level.

Oliver tilts his head back and turns Blake’s face towards his with a finger to Blake’s chin. “Promise me that you’ll say something when you start feeling upset about things. I can’t promise I can change much, depending on where we are in the season, but I want to know. If I can come home or cancel an appearance, I will, or if we need to Skype at three a.m., we can. You’re so important to me Blake, and I don’t want to lose you because I didn’t know. And I can’t know if you don’t communicate.”

“I will. I promise.” Blake seals his vow with a kiss, a long slow slide of lips and tongue that consumes them both for several minutes. Blake’s heart feels like it’s grown three sizes. That Oliver seems to care that much about Blake in return is reassuring and overwhelming. Not in a bad way, of course, but the fact that he’s even with Blake at all is still sometimes surreal.

They lie quietly for a few minutes after the kiss ends, facing each other and staring into one another’s eyes, grinning like loons. It’s all so nice and funny and wonderful.

“Oh, hell, I didn’t even ask you how you liked the game,” Oliver finally says.

“I loved it. How did I never discover hockey before?” The game was fast-paced and exciting. Blake has never been one for sports, but even without Oliver in the picture, Blake thinks he’d enjoy it. He’s not sure if anyone at the office is a hockey fan—football, yes; baseball, yes—but no one’s ever mentioned hockey.

“I _hope_ you loved it.” Oliver kisses Blake’s chest. “You’ll see how much of my life it is for the next seven to nine months. It’s going to stretch the limits of our relationship.”

“So you’ve said,” Blake says. He runs his fingers through Oliver’s short cropped hair, scratches his scalp, earning himself a purr. Oliver’s shown him the hockey schedule, counted out how many days and nights he’ll be on the road, and it’s a lot. But Blake’s never met a man like Oliver and even after the few short months they’ve been together, he can’t imagine life without Oliver in it.

His good intentions to accept Oliver’s life will eventually meet the reality of dating a professional athlete who plays a fast-paced, hard-hitting sport every second or third day and is away as much as, if not more than, he’s home. Blake’s going to be in for a world of loneliness at some point. But Oliver’s absolutely worth it.

“At least you won’t have to worry about puck bunnies.” Oliver chuckles, the vibrations making Blake smile.

“What are puck bunnies?” Although he’s pretty sure he knows just from the terminology.

“Women who hang out at bars and clubs hoping to sleep with a famous hockey player.”

“What? There’s no male equivalent? I mean, you’re gorgeous. I can’t imagine there aren’t male fans out there drooling over your abs and your ass.”

Oliver chuckles at the hockey-ass comment. “I’ve never noticed, to be honest. It’s not that I think my teammates would care much, but if someone else caught me leaving a bar or entering a hotel room with a man other than a teammate, there’d be a huge scandal and I just want to play hockey.”

Blake goes tense. The last five months have been pretty devoid of hockey. They’ve gone and done all kinds of fun things. And, sure, their dates could happen between guy friends, and the two of them could be considered “bros”—a term he hates—but what if…what if… “Oh my god…is our relationship dangerous for you?”

Oliver sits up, cross-legged and Blake mirrors him. Oliver’s eyes are big and blue although shadowed because there’s nothing but the TV for illumination. “There is always danger, Blake, for any gay athlete. Pro or not. Even for non-celebrities, non-athletes, there is danger for those who are queer. You know this.”

“I know, I know. I do, but—”

“Blake,” Oliver cups his face, kisses his nose, then his mouth, brushes his thumbs up and across Blake’s cheekbones, “you are worth the risk. From that first night, I knew. Please don’t fret about things over which we have no control. Do you want to give this up?”

“God, no.” Blake closes his eyes and rests his head against Oliver’s shoulder. “This relationship…I never had one like it. So many of the men I dated were selfish, immature jackasses. I probably was too, to be fair. The women were better, but still not… But you…you’re considerate and mature. You don’t hide your feelings, you don’t avoid conversations. You make me want to be better.”

“I feel the same, Blake. The best thing about having you is knowing you’ll be here when I get home from road trips. That I won’t be coming home to an empty house and a cold bed. I hope we can text or email and Skype or something while I’m gone. What I’m saying is, I don’t want hockey season to be like a nine-month hiatus from our relationship.”

“No, of course not. I’d love to be in communication with you while you’re gone. I just wasn’t sure that’s something you wanted.”

“I want, kulsti, I want.”

“Okay, yes, good.”

Oliver’s hands slide down Blake’s thighs, his thumbs trace the crease of Blake’s groin. “Now, I believe you promised me a reciprocal blow job…”


End file.
